


bury me as it pleases you

by starsplash



Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25089910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsplash/pseuds/starsplash
Summary: how legend is convinced that maybe soulmates are worth more than he thinks.
Relationships: Hyrule & Legend (Linked Universe), Legend (Linked Universe)/Marin (Legend of Zelda), Legend (Linked Universe)/Ravio (Legend of Zelda), Link/Marin (Legend of Zelda), Link/Ravio (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 140





	1. my heart concealed by thorns

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy this is gonna be big one when it's done. thanks to everyone who's helped support me whilst i've been writing this, and i hope you enjoy! title is from 'where is your rider?' by the oh hellos

Legend likes to think soulmates don’t exist.

It’s a lot to take in - it has been months,  _ almost years,  _ since the hibiscus flowers that sprouted from his skin in blooming colours and vivid hues had withered and he had known, he had  _ known  _ it was his fault. He had watched the island disappear. He couldn’t take it back, and it burns in his throat and his chest and lingers behind, haunting him with the phantom of someone he could never see again.

So when yellow begins to seep through the hazy gray cracks scattered across his limbs, he can’t bring himself to believe it. It seems like some cruel joke - mocking him from above, over and over, giving him something else to lose when he has already lost it all.

Soulmates are a curse and he wouldn’t be surprised if these flowers strangle him before they meet.

This town is just another in a long line of places he has already seen, already heard about it, and he doesn’t envy the inexplicable urge his companions seem to have, the urge that sends them over hills and through forests and traversing mountains. It’s a journey he has anticipated and a journey he has no patience for; it stretches the days into weeks into months and he feels a particular disdain at it all. At least they have time to stop, to rest. To spar, to do something  _ useful.  _

So it’s this thought process that brings him and Hyrule in front of Time later in the evening, and they’re battered, they’re scraped, and Legend can feel the grin on his face. He almost forgets the flowers curling closer to him under his sleeves. He feels relaxed, languid in his movements - it’s been a while. Hyrule looks like he wants to apologise, but he doesn’t. In fact, the younger boy looks ludicrously happy, for someone who’s covered in scrapes and slightly charred hair. 

“What  _ happened  _ to you two?” Twilight speaks up, and his face is a mixture of confusion and Legend almost laughs. It’s a breath of fresh air, seeing the looks on their faces. He absently rubs at the scrape on his cheek. 

“We fought.” It’s a statement, accompanied by a half-hearted shrug, and Hyrule’s face looks a little pink, at that. “The kid nearly won.” 

Time raises an eyebrow, and the look on his face is one of severe disappointment. It doesn’t faze him, though. “So it was sparring?” He checks, voice betraying nothing. “The reason you both look like this -” he pauses to eye them both over, from the dried blood on Legend’s nose to the singed hairs of Hyrule’s eyebrows - “is because you were training.”

Legend itches a little at the crowded space under his sleeve, right where the fabric wrinkles by his elbow. His nose scrunches up - the smell is particularly strong, today. “If you’re asking if me fighting the kid was safe and consensual, it was safe and consensual.”

Wild chokes on whatever he is trying to eat and Twilight looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. Time, on the other hand, stares at him flatly. “I expect you to be more careful, in future.”

“I can’t fucking win with you,” Legend grouches, and it’s a tight feeling in his chest. He needs to let out this unbridled energy he has coursing through him, and sparring helps. A glance at Hyrule’s flushed yet satisfied expression has him convinced he is right - he knows the feeling, recognises it. Training so hard your body almost gives out is like cliff-jumping. It pushes and pushes and  _ pushes  _ until you’re drowning, but the fall is what does it. It’s the exhilaration that seeps into the crevices and hooks onto him, bringing him back for more. 

His heart is still pumping in time to the rhythm of the fight and he can feel the flowers beginning to curl over his chest - it’s constricting, and he wants to take off his tunic, his shirt, but he can’t. Not here. They can’t know. Not now, not ever, even if it means he has to tear the roots from their place in his skin. 

He doesn’t think about his soulmate. 

Sitting down beside Hyrule for food is easier than letting his thoughts take him under, so that’s what he does. It’s a mercy that the Champion is a decent cook, and he relishes in it while he can; the feeling of warmth on his tongue is welcome and it’s  _ safe.  _ Nothing like the cloying, overwhelming scent of the flowers that are intertwined with his body, mingling with his flesh and covering his side and it  _ burns.  _

It’s a vice on him, and it doesn’t let up for even a moment, and it’s as if he’s missing a part of him - the space it left is filled with leaves and petals and they seep into him; they’re toxic, they pull him apart at the seams and he struggles to put himself back together again. 

He thinks it would be better if they were thorns, instead. The thorns would be more  _ real,  _ more vivid than the subconscious realisation that his soulflowers are poisoning him from the inside out. It’s a slow death, and he’s not hopeful. He has already lost one soulmate, and that is on him. It’s his fault. This slow demise is what he deserves. 

So the evening fades into night and he makes an excuse to wash himself in the stream - he knows he’ll get privacy, and the confining fabric pressing down on his skin can be removed. The water is clear, and it reflects the stars that slowly begin to spark in the sky above him, shards of ice in a sea of ebony. He submerges his hands, and it’s cold, enveloping him; it’s refreshing, and he revels in it. It’s nothing like the thrum of heat that runs through his veins, through his skin. 

His shirt catches on the vines and the flowers as he tries to remove it - it’s a struggle he’s used to, and he’s grateful that the flowers at least cover the faded tattoo on his arm. Once it’s off, he breathes out into the open air, and it shudders, it gets stuck in his throat - the water stings and the curling stems seem to retract against him. They twist and turn, shying away from the water’s touch, and he bites his lip, letting himself sink further into the water. 

There’s something about the eerie quiet, intermingled with the mellifluous trickling of the stream over the rocks and his skin and the knowledge that the stars keep watching, frosty gaze bittersweet. He looks up at the sky and it is a vast, empty void with lights too far to touch, too far to feel. He has this moment, where he can forget his senses and lie back in the water’s embrace, and the opportunity is there. He could dig his fingers in, he could fight through the pain and rip the flowers out. He could remove this divine tether from his skin, from his being, and forsake his soulmate. He already has a soulmate - or,  _ had.  _ This soulmate was a chance he wasn’t willing to take.

He doesn’t, though. He leaves them there, and thinks to himself that he doesn’t  _ care _ that he has been given another chance. He doesn’t  _ care  _ that he has a soulmate out there, someone in the wide world who has an attachment to him that spreads across the world itself and pulls them closer day by day so that they may meet when the time is right. 

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, anymore. 

The night air is crisp and he can see clouds of mist when he breathes - it’s clear, it’s bright, and he lets it wash over him. He lies there in the clutch of the water, petals floating free, and he thinks. He thinks about what brought him here, and the sinking suspicion that this is not the last of his adventures - there is  _ something  _ missing. 

Sitting up is difficult. His back and his chest ache and he feels the areas from which the roots of his flowers are buried with a startling clarity; every touch of the breeze and the water against them sends streaks of unnerving pain down his spine. 

“Legend?”

He goes still. 

Turning around is pain-stakingly slow, and his heart begins to thrum with a frantic rhythm in his chest, racing in leaps and bounds, and his skin  _ burns  _ with the pressure. He finds the source of the voice, and it’s Hyrule. It’s Hyrule, stood there with lips parted in a wordless whisper, eyes wide and Legend doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t want to see the way the kid looks at him, like there’s something  _ wrong  _ with him, because there  _ is  _ and he doesn’t need another reminder of that. 

“Legend, are you okay?” The kid’s voice is full of concern, brimming to the top and overflowing with sympathy and Legend can’t  _ stand  _ it. But the sincerity brings him to a halt and he finds his heart’s thunder becoming a background sensation. 

He raises his hands, and gestures to himself. What more of an answer does Hyrule want? Legend is aching, deep in his bones and every movement costs him a little more. His arms and chest are encased in constricting vines and stems, sprouting from the crevices of his flesh, blooming flowers hanging off him. There is something about it, the way it curls in on him and reacts to the world around him, that makes it feel like another extension of his being, although he doesn’t want to see it that way. “I don’t think I need to elaborate on that answer.” His voice is steadier than he anticipated, and he manages to hide the way the words are running to and fro in his mind, scattering and reconvening in a way that makes it hard to string them together. 

Hyrule studies him for a moment and his gaze stings almost as much as the water. When he speaks, it’s matter-of-factly and carefully neutral. “Laburnum. It’s Laburnum, right?” He pauses and Legend wants to speak out, wants to make him  _ stop  _ before he says something Legend already knows all too well, but it’s too late for that. “They’re poisonous.”

It’s so much more than that. Legend knows this much. The Laburnum that coils in his body and covers the spaces he keeps hidden, the marks from a world long gone, the flowers that slowly poison him with every waking moment, they are a fragmentation of his anger, his unfaltering rage - he has been forsaken, in every way he can think of. He has journeyed far and wide and saved worlds that aren’t his own to save, and he has nothing to show for it but the plants leeching away at his life bit by bit. He has been forgotten, neglected by every deity that lays their eyes upon him, and the poison is his to bear - perhaps it is punishment for destroying the very thing he held dear. The flowers bloom golden and shades of violet, entwined in a myriad of petals, and their beauty is a mockery. 

“I know,” is all he says. It’s all he can say. He looks across the stream at this kid, this boy who went out of his way to make him comfortable, and he can almost ignore the ache in his chest. It doesn’t fade away that easily, though. 

“You don’t know who your soulmate is, then?” Hyrule asks, and this time it’s hesitant, quiet. The boy sits down at the edge of the ground, and the water barely touches his feet. 

Legend finds himself snorting and it’s humourless, it’s bitter and it’s false. It sits heavy on the tongue and in the back of his throat and he forces it out. “Do you think I’d still have these damn flowers, if I did?” It’s a question he doesn’t expect an answer to, and he’s satisfied when he doesn’t get one. Hyrule bites his lip and looks down at the water, and Legend begins to feel the familiar self-conscious burn in his chest. 

He thinks back to a time when he could answer that question confidently - he has a soulmate, a soulmate with hair more vibrant than any sunset and skin that has been warmed by the ever-burning light in the sky above them, and eyes clearer than the great ocean itself that surrounded them, glinting in the horizon beyond the trees and the sand. 

The moment had been sudden and yet so drawn out and he wishes he could capture feelings and moments in time - the memory is no longer seen in the same clarity but he remembers, nonetheless. The hibiscus flowers that flourished over his upper arms, over his shoulders like a blanket, had sunk into his skin and become nothing but a tattoo, a mark, a permanent reminder of a love that he had gained on an island far away in the midst of a sea-salt breeze and the feeling of the sand between his toes. The smell of the flowers was sweet to the nose, and when he had rested his forehead against her shoulder, it had been aromatic. He had breathed it in, and the forget-me-nots on her forearms were pale and bright as she had wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. 

Even now, standing against the cold night air, he could still taste the lingering citrus and feel the warm, summery sensation of her lips on his. It had felt so  _ real.  _

But Marin is gone, and he has been forsaken. 

“Are you going to look for your soulmate? We could help, yknow-” Hyrule cuts off when he sees the look on Legend’s face and he can feel his lips curling into a snarl, eyebrows drawn together, and all he can think is that they  _ cannot know.  _ These flowers were his and his alone to bear. 

“You won’t tell them  _ anything,  _ kid,” he replies and his tone is biting, it’s full of unbridled fury, and he tries to shove the fear that threatens to overwhelm him down. “Because if you do, I’ll never forgive you. So help me, if any of  _ them  _ get word of this, I’ll rip you limb from limb.” He doesn’t mean it, but the threat is out and he feels his chest heaving. Hyrule’s face is pale and he backs away from the water with a shaky nod, and Legend wants to reach out, wants to apologise, but he doesn’t. 

_ They can’t know.  _

The flowers coil closer and Hyrule is gone, disappearing into the trees. He is alone once more, alone with the plants that have signed his death-warrant. 

Lying back into the water, he lets the flowers burn against his skin, and he reaches up with shaking hands. He’s wrenching at the flowers, pulling handfuls of petals off his body and the visceral noise that feels like it is ripped out of the inside of him, like something brutal is tearing through his chest, echoes around him and he keeps pulling. They scorch his fingertips, his hands flying to his chest and he pitches forward, his forehead pressed against the rough ground of the stream bank. The keening noise he makes  _ hurts,  _ and the stars watch him without mercy.

The subsiding sobs get lost in the trickle of the stream and the night passes him by, a shadow in the water.


	2. i hope for unity

This is far from the strangest thing Ravio has faced, and he has no complaints. 

He is no stranger to the concept of other worlds, and it eats him up from the inside. Leaving Lorule had been hard enough, but he had failed to find a hero and that would never change. It is his fault he can no longer return to his home, and so he makes himself useful right here in a land that is not his, and forgets his abandonment. 

And yet now he is, yet again, lost in a place he does not know, in a time where nothing matters. Time has no meaning in this place - he is out of the loop and the only thing tethering him to what he knows is the ferns that rest under his robes, soothing to touch and soft against his skin. 

He has a soulmate, and based on the plant’s Hylian origins, he feels a little less attached to Lorule. 

He wants to paint a picture of his soulmate - he wants to use strokes of blue like a cloudless sky, wants to add swathes of red like the Hylian sunset, wants to add the sensation of rolling through a field of flowers, of laughing on a summer’s day, of the eerie quiet when the stars blanket the ebony night.

He thinks he would weave his soulmate a crown of ferns and flowers to settle atop their head. They certainly deserve it, in his eyes. He wears his soulmark like a badge of honour, making his ferns clear to see - there is no shame in it, after all. Somewhere out there, he is bonded by some divine force with a person who will _complete_ him.

A blissful reverie, a respite from the bitter memories of Lorule. 

This place is new, he thinks as he wanders through the forest, traversing hills and riversides. It’s new and wild and _free,_ but something about it is unshakeably empty. The solemnity of the leaves rustling and the song of the breeze across the water, it’s all background noise, and it fades away too easily. He has never been more aware of his surroundings, and the reassuring touch of his ferns begins to sting. There is something more to this place, and he’s not sure he wants to find out what it is. 

Wandering becomes searching when he realises he is nowhere near civilisation - it’s distressing, it’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, and the emptiness surrounds him in an embrace he does not want. It’s only when he reaches a road - more of a beaten dirt path than anything - and so he follows it, hoping it will lead him somewhere with _people._

And eventually he does find people - a quiet stable, with just a few voices loud enough to be heard over the breeze and the grass rustle and the sound of the horses in the fields. It’s unfamiliar, it’s all new, it’s all a little too much to try to understand. For now, he quietly manages to get a bed for the night, with some difficulty. 

The next few days pass by in much the same manner, and he feels something inside him ache and hurt, deep inside his chest - and when he feels the ferns tighten and curl against him, feels a tug on his hands and his wrists, dread curls violently in the pit of his stomach and Ravio knows the certitudes, knows the facts. He’s known for a long time that his soulmate may not want him in the same way but it begins to pull on his soul, begins to take root in the dark corners. This isn’t his world and he knows that, too - but his soulmate must be here too, surely, for him to feel such a visceral reaction to his ferns, right? 

But the truth of the matter that sits uncomfortable in his bones is that his soulmate feels so, so far away all the same. Whoever they are, they feel distant, and that makes Ravio hold back the urge to cry - _crying is weak, now, Ravio, you have to stop being such a coward and a pathetic, whining rabbit_ \- even when, to be honest, he has no reason to feel this way. Ravio has never met his soulmate, but he misses them, misses them like a phantom limb, like a sudden, traumatic blow to the head. He misses them like he might've missed the quiet, perennial assurance of his own shadow. Something that was a constant, until it wasn't. Gone, inexplicably, and his heart rises up to meet his windpipe and refuses to stray from there. 

Throat tight, Ravio makes his way down the earthen path, the trees arching and twisting, and the silence is a little painful. It’s _too_ quiet and the sun is lowering in the sky once more, the leaves rustle almost imperceptibly and he thinks he hears movement but he isn’t sure. It could be anything, really. 

At least what seems to be summer is merciful to him today, bringing a light breeze through the sparse line of trees, and beyond the woodland he can just about make out the wide, beautiful plains surrounding him, edged in hills and distant mountains, colourful wildflowers swaying in the sunlight. It’s more than he deserves, in all fairness, and he spends some time sitting on the grass, legs stretched out, just to commit the view to memory. It’s a long, long time, spent forgetting the ferns and the tug at his heart and the impending doom befalling his world as he stays here. It’s too late for them, anyway. Maybe he’s a coward for running, not trying to find a way back to help them, but right now, he’s just glad to be in a world like _this,_ as eerie and somewhat decayed it seems at times. 

In the end his attention is only swayed by a yell, piercing the silence - multiple yells, in fact, all varying in tone, some angrier than others, and barking laughter, rabid and filled with a brutal sort of joy. This particular laugh is preceded by the anguished squeal of something that definitely isn’t human or hylian, and Ravio muses on this. It’s likely a monster, and he’s only seen them in his distant peripheral during his travels, but it’s not his problem, that is, until one bursts from the trees behind him brandishing a club. 

Ravio is on his feet in an instant and he _runs,_ he runs and races over the grass like a startled rabbit, his robes suddenly feeling too confining, too heavy. His heart beats hard and then harder inside his chest, threatening to burst from him, and his breaths catch violent and harsh in his lungs; he can’t focus, can’t concentrate, just _run and keep running, don’t look back, don’t let it catch you._

As the ground blurs beneath his feet, he can vaguely make out voices, drawing ever closer and _thumpthumpthump_ his heart roars and the drums of war are louder than ever against his ribs. His skin pricks with a horrible, anxious energy, and he tries to spare a glance in the direction of the voices. There’s definitely a group there, some taller, some smaller, each with their own weapon, caught in combat. One in particular, dressed in red, whirls to parry a blow and as they’re pushed back, Ravio feels a twinge in his wrists. 

_Could it be? Here, now? Is it them?_

Ravio doesn’t know, suddenly, if he wants to find out. 

And then he’s knocked to the dirt, struggling to push the offending monster away from him with frantic, shaking arms and sharp, shallow breaths he tries to get back but it’s so, so difficult, his lungs aching and his body running solely on adrenaline. It isn’t working, he’s not _strong_ enough, he’s going to _die -_

Just as the monster’s bat hits the ground next to his head, grazing his cheek, someone wrenches the squealing beast from him and blood splatters Ravio’s robes as a blade, gold and tempered, runs the thing through from behind. It falls limp by his side and he tries once more to catch his breath, eyes flitting up to his supposed saviour - or possible threat. 

Oh, _oh,_ he’s _beautiful._ The man standing above him has soft, strawberry blonde hair tinged with pink, eyes piercing and intense and _blue,_ blue as the sky above him, something he’s never been able to see before. His brows draw together, a furrowed line in his forehead as he offers a hand, rough and painted with stray strokes of blood. Ravio takes it, anyway. He’s hoisted to his feet with ease and his saviour looks so much _better_ now, standing here in front of him in the late evening golden light, illuminating the curve of his cheek and the cupid’s bow of his lip. The intensity in his eyes alone is enough to make Ravio feel things he hadn’t realised he’s capable of feeling. 

“What the fuck were you doing out here alone? Without a weapon, to boot? Are you an idiot?” The hero’s voice, oh, it’s rough and sharp all at once and even when his words are harsh, Ravio thinks maybe love at first sight might be real. He’s strong and sharp and he’s- 

He’s wearing red.

Is he Ravio’s soulmate?

It takes him a moment to find his voice under the stony gaze of the hero - his eyes seem to pierce through his very soul, see into every crack and every corner of his being - and Ravio’s more than a little embarrassed at the way his voice _squeaks._ “I’m Ravio and I’m not around from here, can I stay with you?” 

He doesn’t know why he asks, but it’s an impulse decision. Something about this beautiful boy makes Ravio want to stay. Makes him want to try. 

He’s not _tried_ in such a long, long time. 

The hero stares at him for a moment - incredulous? - and turns to his companions who’ve drawn in closer. Now that he’s able to count them, Ravio sees nine altogether, all brandishing a weapon of sorts, although they seem to be in the process of putting them away, which is a relief for sure. Ravio doesn’t want to know what happens if he’s seen as a threat. 

They talk for a while, standing together in a tight circle, a few whispers raised louder than others, and Ravio waits with bated breath, uncertain. They’ll turn him away, surely, as they don’t have a true reason to keep him here, but Ravio’s skin tingles and his ferns unfurl under his robes and he knows with every ounce of certainty his tired heart can provide that he belongs with them. And then his hero steps to him and nods, short and concise. “You can stay,” his wonderfully rough, low voice tells him. “But only until we reach the next town or stable, alright?” 

That’s more than enough, it’s perfect, it gives him _time._ So Ravio feels his lips curve up into the first proper smile he’s smiled in years, and nods in answer. “Thank you, thank you so, so much,” he hears himself say, genuine in his sincerity, but that’s not what matters. What matters is that his soulmate might be here and he can finally, _finally_ be happy. 

So he follows them down the worn path as the sun lowers below the horizon and he lets himself dream of stolen touches and smiles and laughter in the summer air under the stars.


End file.
